Unnatural Progression
by LCsquee
Summary: "The little doctor had to go put in some hours at the clinic, but Sherlock decided to come along after Lestrade insisted they 'celebrate a closed case for once.' So here he was, in the wee hours of the morning, watching the sociopath match him shot for shot." Oneshot, AndersonxSherlock


Title: Unnatural Progression

Series: Sherlock (BBC)

Disclaimer: I do not own the series nor the characters.

Genres: Angst, humor, romance

Warnings: smut, malexmale

Pairings: Anderson x Sherlock

Story Word Count: 6217

This wasn't natural, he thought, throwing back another shot a moment after the man across him did so. It was some sort of violation of a cosmic law, a perversion of the natural order of the universe. Sherlock took another shot glass in his pale hand, smirking a little unsteadily at him before swinging his head back and downing it. Anderson attempted a sneer before following suit, the vodka burning it's way down his throat. He was doing shots with Sherlock in a pub, somewhere around one in the morning on a Friday night/Saturday morning. Yes, this was a sign of the apocalypse.

They were on a case earlier that day, a particularly difficult one, and Lestrade just _had_ to call in the freak and his little doctor friend in. Not that they needed his help, Anderson reminded himself, rolling the empty shot glass in his hands. No, but he burst in with his usual stupid flare of trench coat and scarf and solved the case in a few minutes. Well, it wasn't officially solved until the lab results confirmed it and paperwork was filed a couple hours later, but he solved it nonetheless. It was getting later into the evening, and it was a Friday, so some boys from the Yard were going to head to a pub to kick off the weekend. Lestrade just _had_ to invite the freak and his friend along. The little doctor had to go put in some hours at the clinic, but Sherlock decided to come along after Lestrade insisted they "celebrate a closed case for once." So here he was, in the wee hours of the morning, watching the sociopath match him shot for shot.

Speaking of Lestrade, Anderson noted sourly as the wobbling Detective-Inspector sloshed a pint at another yard member one booth over, he was entirely to blame for him being stuck at the same table as Sherlock. He'd dumped the sociopath off at their booth with a round of shots and abandoned them in favor of an old friend who'd turned up at the bar. It was awkward, two people who loathed each other siting across a table from each other while everyone around them got drunk and had fun. Thank god for the vodka; without the alcohol to distract them from one another, the poor bar staff might have wound up with a fistfight on their hands between a forensics scientist and a consulting detective.

Their booth at the present, littered with empty shot glasses and Yard members passing by, blurred and shifted in front of Anderson's eyes. He knew he was in that special place right now, between buzzed and drunk; where his mind was still mostly operational while his body sometimes acted like it forgot he was still in some control. He watched Sherlock reach for another shot glass, his long fingers knocking over two others in the attempt. Sherlock was there too, he thought with more than a little humor. The great detective could get smashed just like everyone else. A laugh rose in his throat, and though he told his mouth not to open, it ignored his mind and let loose a chuckle.

Sherlock's hand paused around another shot, his eyes narrowing at Anderson. "Whaso funny?" he asked, the alcohol slipping a little slur into his otherwise usual I'm-too-smart-for-you-so-don't-bother-speaking tone.

"You're getting _drunk_," Anderson sniggered around his hand, falling into a small laughing fit.

Sherlock's eyebrows rose and fell in quick succession, his mouth twisting. Seeming to finally find what he was looking for in the other man's words, past the alcohol seeping across the floors of his mind palace and soaking into the rugs, he twisted a hand vaguely at Anderson and grumbled, "I am _not_ drunk. I'm—I'm—"

"Squiggered," Anderson supplied in a snicker, throwing back another shot.

Sherlock gazed at him with all the intensity a nearly-drunk man can muster before asking, "What?"

"'Sa word I just came up with," Anderson clarified, "means you're not quite drunk yet, but almost. The state of almost-drunk. Sssssssquiggered. Squiggered. The state of squig, you are now squiggered, squigger yourself, the act of squiggering. Yeah." Anderson nodded, mostly sure his explanation could fit neatly into a dictionary. He made a mental note to contact a dictionary company and suggest the word's inclusion in its next publication.

Sherlock huffed, the huff itself coming out more as an unsteady puff of air accompanied by a slight wiggle of his head. "S'not a word. But yes, I am. So?"

"So you're part human, somewhere under all that metal. Not where it counts, but somewhere," Anderson jeered triumphantly, feeling like he had won some sort of argument. He snatched up a shot glass and brought it up to his snickering mouth. He was not expecting for Sherlock to roughly take the glass from his hand and thud it back down onto the stained booth table.

Sherlock glared at him, fumbling with the words he wanted in his head before simply stating, "Sod off, Anderson. You-you're stupid, so shut up." He grabbed the confiscated shot glass and knocked it back.

Anderson frowned, then leered across the table at the consulting detective. He leaned forward, jabbing a finger into Sherlock's chest, "You're the stupid one, you stup-stupid robot." He bumped his finger a few more times against the other's chest, ramblings taking on a sing-song quality, "You-you soooo stupid, you can't smile, you know that? You can't do anythin' human 'cept get drunk~! Robot, robot, robot- robot can't dance, robot can't cry, robot can't laugh, robot can't kiss~" Sherlock's face was redder than Anderson imagined it could possibly be. Somewhere in his squiggered brain, he knew he had crossed a line, but, of course, in his state of almost-drunkenness he couldn't always control his mouth. So he continued, "Robot can't fuck, stupid virgin robot ~"

The next thing he knew, there was an extreme close-up of a pale fist in his vision. Then he was on the floor, watching a pair of expensive leather shoes stomp unsteadily towards the door. Anderson briefly considered following, to provide a counter-point to the punch, but the floor was oddly comfortable. Plus, Lestrade was laughing above him somewhere, and he didn't want to deal with him and whatever it was that he found so damn funny. So he welcomed the blackout, slipping into a squiggered state of sleep.

**** oO0o0Oo ****

Anderson woke the next morning on his couch, fully dressed and feeling the distinct after-pains of a night spent in a pub. He had no memory of how he had gotten home, but he suspected his coworkers had been responsible. Rising with a sigh, he made his way through his empty house to the bathroom. His reflection showed a man with a bruise forming on his left cheekbone. The bloom of reddish-purple brought back the memories of how he had acquired the colorful new addition to his face. He frowned at the mirror. He couldn't decide if he felt angrier at Sherlock for punching him, or at himself for provoking him. He had said some pretty nasty things. Nastier than usual. Nothing worse than what he and Sally whispered about behind his back, but he didn't say it behind his back last night, did he? He turned away from the mirror, deciding to blame it all on the alcohol and try his best to forget the whole incident.

The rest of his day was spent nursing himself off his squigger-induced hangover, which not as bad as a drunk hangover but still worse than a buzzed one. He did all the things he did on a normal Saturday—check his e-mail, hoover the living room, call his wife at her parent's house to dance around the subject of their divorce before wimping out and talking about work –- but he couldn't help but think of another man in a flat across town trying to go about his own Saturday rituals with a hangover. He would find himself absently brushing his fingers across his growing bruise, the hoover moving over the same patch of carpet for the fifth time, before forcibly pushing the other man out of his thoughts. Stupid sociopath.

He quickly ran out of chores to do, facing a midday lull in activity. He didn't want to go out in public, his face flowered with the evidence of a fight. His mind wondered back to the bar. How many shots had they downed semi-peaceably before the incident? How many more would they have consumed if he had just kept his mouth shut? He shook his head, deciding to read the newspaper. Again.

Donovan sent him a text around six, asking if he wanted to get some dinner with her. He declined, texting back that he had relatives over for the night. He sat on his couch alone in the living room, silently turning his phone off. It sat like a weight on the coffee table. At seven he opened his refrigerator, snatching a bottle of beer and skulking back into the living room. Stupid Sherlock. He turned on the telly, watching the evening news and drinking slowly, not eager to be any form of inebriated again soon. He began nodding off, the drone of plastic-faced news anchors and beer lulling him into an easy sort of doze.

He woke with a start an hour later. He hadn't remembered falling asleep and, glancing at the clock above his telly, he was surprised to see that it was nearly nine. A series of knocks sounded at his door; of course, that's what woke him. He struggled to his feet and made his way over to the door. Glancing through the narrow window set into the doorframe, he stepped back in surprise. Giving his head a shake, he opened the door. Sherlock stood in his doorway. "Good evening, Anderson," Sherlock said quietly.

They stood there at the doorway for a moment, an embarrassed sort of silence hanging in the air, before Anderson remembered his manners and stood back to let Sherlock in. Sherlock swept into the little hallway that opened into his living room, his eyes moving swiftly over the area. Anderson shut the door and stood in the archway to his living room, staring at Sherlock's back as the other looked fixedly at a photo of Anderson in grade school perched on a shelf by his telly. Not really knowing which of the many questions and accusations that buzzed around his head he should voice first, he blurted out, "How'd you know where I live?"

Sherlock paused in the act of lifting another photo, this one of a family reunion in the 90's, to say flatly, "I looked you up in the phonebook." Anderson fought the flush of embarrassment from appearing on his face; of course, he was listed in the phonebook, it was quite easy for anyone to find where he lived.

Trying again, he asked, "Well, then, _why_ are you here?"

Sherlock carefully replaced the picture back on the shelf. He put his hands in his pockets, absently searching for something as he answered quietly, "I wanted to… try something. An experiment, if you will." Hands coming back empty from his pockets, he sighed and reached for another photo instead, asking a little louder, "Do you have a cigarette?"

Anderson blinked a couple of times, trying to process what was going on here, why there was a sociopathic genius in his living room, going through his family photos and talking about experiments and asking for a smoke. Frowning in confusion, he chose the easiest subject and said, "You're not supposed to smoke, Lestrade said—"

"I'm going to _need_ one to talk about this," Sherlock bit out, hunching his shoulders a little, then adding in a more composed but strained voice, "_please_."

Anderson didn't smoke, but his ex-wife did. "Give me a minute," Anderson said, moving to the kitchen. She had been trying to quit before they fell apart, for him. She really did enjoy smoking, though, and she had hidden a few packs around the house. He had found many after she finally moved out. He hadn't moved them. He reached behind the breadbox, retrieving a red and white pack and flimsy yellow lighter that had been wedged between the wall and wooden box.

Moving back into the living room, he found Sherlock seated on his couch, his eyes closed and his fingers steepled. His scarf and black coat were tossed into a nearby armchair, the one his wife had insisted completed the room. He silently tapped the other on the shoulder with a knuckle, handing over a cigarette and the lighter. Sherlock lit up with the deft movements of one who was practiced in the art of smoking while otherwise preoccupied with conducting experiments and solving crimes. Anderson settled on to the opposite end of the couch, which wasn't really all that far away on a sofa that was more a loveseat than a couch. Sherlock inhaled deeply, the tip of the cigarette burning red, moving his head back to rest on the back of couch. He exhaled a cloud of smoke and smiled faintly. Opening his eyes to look at the smoke spiral up to meet the ceiling, he took another, smaller drag and asked Anderson with all the calm in the world, smoke tumbling out of his mouth, "Does everyone else think I'm a robot?"

Anderson started slightly, not expecting such a forward discussion about the other night. Etiquette required an apology, he reminded himself. Fidgeting with an empty beer bottle, he answered in a strained, half-remorseful, half-embarrassed voice, "Look, I'm sorry for what I said, I was drunk. I didn't mean any of —"

Sherlock plucked the beer bottle from his hands and set it lightly on the coffee table, effectively silencing Anderson's apology. He tapped his accumulated ash off the end of his cigarette into the glass ashtray next to the beer. Sherlock rolled his head to look at Anderson across the small couch. He brought the cigarette back to his lips, taking a slow drag and releasing, to Anderson's astonishment, a series of smoke rings. Chuckling slightly at the other's expression, Sherlock handed back the lighter. Taking another drag, he said calmly, "You weren't drunk, you were _squiggered, _as you informed me last night. You meant what you said. Don't apologize for being honest."

"But I'm still sorry," Anderson muttered, bewildered by how regretful he actually was. Since when did he feel sorry for the freak, someone he loathed and who returned the emotion with fervor?

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, confused, "Why?"

Anderson recognized this as one of Sherlock's sociopathic moments, an inability to understand empathy; though he himself was also wondering why he felt so reticent. He thought for a moment, face contemplative, and explained slowly and with some embarrassment, "Because I upset you. Enough you make you hit me."

Sherlock stared at him for a long, unnerving moment. Damn, Anderson thought for a wild moment, he didn't know his eyes were so light. Anderson shook himself mentally, told himself to focus. Then Sherlock shrugged, breaking the moment, and lifted his eyes back up toward the ceiling, "You said things I didn't like hearing, so I hit you. That seems fair enough."

Anderson slowly flicked the lighter on and off, watching the flame ignite and die. He answered more slowly, "I don't think it's fair." Sherlock looked back over at him. Anderson continued, "Well, I guess, I think that, that what I said hurt you more than your fist hurt me. If someone had said those things to me, I would have done more than punch them," he paused, laughing at sympathizing, no, _empathizing_ with someone who could not empathize, "I would have beat the _crap_ out of them."

Sherlock snorted at the wasted sentiment, and Anderson wasn't surprised. But then Sherlock's eyebrows descended and he seemed to focus on something internal, his cigarette hanging limply from his lips. Anderson fought the urge to warn him not to let it fall and burn a hole in his couch. As if hearing his concern for his sofa, thin, pale fingers came up and slowly adjusted the cigarette. He sucked in slow and long, the red chasing the white paper up a burning line toward the filter. He held the smoke in his mouth while he closed his eyes, face one of concentration. After what seemed like an eternity, he blew out a column of white, billowing smoke toward the ceiling, his face once more relaxed. He held what remained of the cigarette between his fingers and muttered, "I miss this."

Sherlock turned his gaze back to Anderson, his expression neutral, and asked again, "Does everyone think I'm a robot?"

Anderson briefly considered lying. With some guilt, he said, "Not everyone. Just, well, a lot of people. Most people." Sherlock didn't seem upset by his admission; he simply nodded.

Sherlock took one last drag from his cigarette, smoking it right down to the filter. He tossed the little bit of plastic into the ashtray and turned to face Anderson, who in turn began to feel nervous for some reason. He felt like he was forgetting something. "About the experiment I mentioned earlier," Sherlock began, and Anderson felt a moment of embarrassment at forgetting about it so quickly, "if you really do feel so badly about what happened last night, like we're still not even… perhaps you could make it up to me by assisting me in it." He looked levelly at Anderson who, for all the world, was never so conflicted over a simple 'yes or no' question. Yes, he did want to make up for the things he said and have he weight of it off his conscious so he could go back to hating Sherlock. No, he did not want to be part of his experiment because of all the horrific things he'd seen and heard of Sherlock's 'experiments.'

His distress must have been clear on his face, or perhaps it was the long silence, but Sherlock added, "I promise you will come to no harm or discomfort. In fact, I daresay you'll rather like it."

He couldn't say no. As uneasy he was about it, he nodded, "Yes, okay." Sherlock smiled a small, satisfied smile. He scooted across the small sofa, sitting close enough to bump knees with Anderson. Alarm bells rang in his head. The yellow lighter was tugged from his hands and tossed carelessly onto the coffee table, bouncing off the pack of cigarettes and landing next to the ashtray. Sherlock leaned in toward Anderson, his nose bumping his bruised cheek softly. The adam's apple bobbed in Anderson's throat. "I want to test something you brought up," Sherlock murmured into his ear, his breath warm and smoky, "about being part human, but not where it counts." He moved a hand lightly on the other's knee, "You said a robot like me can't kiss, can't fuck, is a virgin," the hand gripped his knee, "I want to see if I'm human where it counts to you people; intimately." And then he nosed his way diagonally from his ear and laid his lips on the bruised cheekbone. He sucked once, gently, a small kiss. A gasp escaped Anderson.

He moved his head toward the body that had somehow managed to move so close to his. Sherlock angled his face and kissed him. He didn't know what to do with all the thoughts running through his head. What would he have done just 24 hours ago if Sherlock had kissed him? He would have probably knocked him out cold. But right now, 24 hours later, he grabbed the back of Sherlock's neck and brought him down to deepen the kiss. Good God, he was expecting smoke, but there was also tea and mint and something richer, something that screamed raw intelligence. Their mouths moved fluidly, lips not wanting to part for too long. He had wound his other hand around Sherlock's waist, forcing him forward onto his lap. Legs acquiesced and settled on either side of his thighs. Sherlock flicked a tongue against his bottom lip, sucking for a moment before plunging it into the other's mouth. Anderson returned the favor with fervor. He changed the angle of the kiss, pushed the genius back onto the couch cushions, Sherlock's long legs wrapping around him. He couldn't tell where his moan began and Sherlock's ended.

It had been too long, that had to be the reason why this felt so good, he reasoned with himself—too long since his wife had occupied his bed, too long since the one-nighters with Sally. He moved his mouth down along Sherlock's jawbone, kissing and laving his way down across the pale skin of his throat. This should feel wrong, he should be pushing the other away and screaming that he was a freak. Sherlock's hands moved across the expanse of his back, gripping for a hold as Anderson reached the dip between his collarbones. He sucked there slowly, feeling hands pull at the back of his shirt and legs tighten around him. Letting out a sound like a bit-off whine, Sherlock moved his hands away from his shirt and pulled his face back up to his own, pressing a long, warm kiss to the pulse-point on Anderson's throat before moving back to his mouth.

The need to breathe was pushing on both of them, and they broke apart when they were forced to, taking quick, panting gasps before joining together again, lips soft and swollen and needy. And dear lord, the need was not one-sided, Anderson could tell that much; the body moving under his was straining and brushing a heated, hard line against his own swelling erection. He hadn't expected any of this to be possible—Sherlock kissing, getting a hard-on, being _intimate_ and being so damn _good _at it. He hadn't expected himself to enjoy something like this, and with Sherlock of all people. They parted once more, for what seemed like one of too many times, and Sherlock smiled a little breathlessly up at him with that same smile he got when he found the criminal mastermind behind a difficult crime scene. His well-formed lips were rosy and shiny with shared saliva, color high and neon pink in his cheeks, eyes glossy and obscured by pupils dilated to cover all but a circlet of silvery blue iris. Dear lord.

"So, would you say I am capable of kissing like a human?" Sherlock breathed out.

Anderson swallowed. Twice. "Yes, definitely," he answered seriously, causing Sherlock to chuckle. This is just an experiment, he reminded himself internally.

"Should we move on to other part of the experiment?" Sherlock asked lightly, slowly arching and rolling his hips to push against the other's. Anderson sucked in a breath through his teeth as sparks of electric need ran up and down his cock.

"Yes," he gritted out, and brought his hips down hard onto Sherlock's, pushing the breath out of both of them as he pressed their bodies deep into the couch cushions.

Sherlock gasped a series of stuttering sounds that sounded suspiciously like the other's name before finally gasping, "N-not on the sofa, in a-a bed." Anderson let out a low, long groan of self-suffering, but rolled off of the couch and grasped Sherlock's arm, dragging him off the sofa. Sherlock stumbled into him, landing them sprawled on the coffee table and spinning the bottles and smoking tidbits in every direction. Anderson kissed him, eager and wishing they could just have at it there on the coffee table. But, he half-lifted the other man and pulled him toward the stairs, stumbling and kissing, honoring Sherlock's request for a proper place to perform his experiment. Besides, it was only good manners to provide a bed for coitus in one's own home.

It was a miracle they didn't fall down the steps and break their necks, Anderson thought as they moved up the stairs, their bodies pushing and twisting together even as they stumbled and lurched over every few steps. And how many times had he wished the consulting detective would take a dive down a flight of steps- hadn't he joked about that with some Yard members only a week ago? He grasped the stair-rail as Sherlock ground unexpectedly against his groin, cruses falling from his mouth as he steadied them both. He steered them into the master bedroom, where he hadn't slept since his wife moved back in with her parents.

He didn't bother to remove the pillows or turn down the comforter, he just fell onto it with Sherlock, pressing their needs together the first moment he could. They moved at first discordantly, all frantic friction, but soon found a rhythm. They panted in tandem, fisting hair and placing quick kisses wherever they landed without discretion. Anderson bit his lip, he was getting too close, he needed to stop, but it felt so good—he put his hands on Sherlock's hips, stopping them both. Sherlock looked a little dazedly at him as if wondering why on earth he would want to stop. Anderson held up a finger, unable to get the breath to speak, and untangled himself enough to reach the little bedside cabinet to his right. He had left it in here, hadn't bothered to move it to the guest room where he slept now, it was in one of the drawers… He opened the first drawer, then the middle before finally bringing out a tube. Sherlock's eyes widened in understanding, and he licked his lips briefly.

Anderson crawled back over to Sherlock, all too eager to move ahead, but something was pressing at the back of his mind, something that needed his attention before he gave it over to his lower regions… oh. "Uh," he said, almost wincing at the amount of awkwardness being put into the air with that one word, "How're we… I mean, who's going to…" he gestured vaguely at them, the lube, the bed, the world at large, hoping the genius would understand and provide an answer.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, let out a large, dramatic sigh, and started to unbutton his shirt, "You must not have been listening when I promised that you would encounter no harm nor discomfort. I'll be on the receiving end." Anderson opened and closed his mouth a few times; he would have been willing to be the bottom, even if he didn't prefer it. Sherlock huffed and threw his shirt off to a distant corner of the room, "I promised, so tell your normal, plebeian mind to shut up and get your clothes off." Well, there was no arguing with that, Anderson thought to himself, quickly divesting himself of his clothes.

The awkwardness hadn't dissipated completely yet, and Anderson didn't quite know how to go about this. Sherlock lay down on his back, gave him a small, reassuring smile, and pulled Anderson's arm, guiding him to meet him in a kiss. It was surprisingly easy to pick back up where they left off, the need pushing them together in a panting, too-hot jumble on top of the flowered comforter. Little stars exploded across his vision as they moved their unclothed erections together, grinding and sliding. Before he knew it, Sherlock was grasping the sheets and spreading his legs gloriously, instructing him to get on with it before he did it himself.

Anderson had fooled around with some other guys in university, nights of intoxicated experimentation (oh the irony); he was not clueless. He coated his fingers in the lube, rubbing his hands to warm the thin, slippery gel. He slipped one finger slowly into Sherlock's entrance, moving it in circles. Sherlock's face tightened, but he otherwise showed no inclination for the other to stop. He carefully introduced another finger, scissoring and stretching while listening for sounds to stop. Sherlock shifted a little on the sheets, trying to get used to the sensation, but grunted, "Keep going." Anderson added a third finger, feeling a pang of guilt when Sherlock let out a small, muffled groan. He moved his fingers slowly, stretching the opening. He spread his fingers, pushing them farther in, searching for the other's prostrate. He couldn't help the smirk that formed when Sherlock suddenly arched, cursing, "F-f-f-fuuuuuck!" He arched toward the fingers again, growling, "I'm ready, just do it already!"

Anderson coated his member thoroughly, placed his hands on Sherlock's hips to hold him steady. A voice in the back of his head was telling him, hey, wasn't it odd that he was so eager to be balls-deep in a man he professed hatred for? But there were a pair of pale legs spread wide, literally inviting him in; he used the advice given to him from that very hated man and told his mind to sod off.

"Okay, here we go…" He lined up his aching cock, pressed against Sherlock's entrance, and slowly pushed forward. Sherlock's knuckles turned white against the comforter, eyes squeezed shut. Anderson's breath came out raggedly, "Ah, ahhhh, damn, ahhh, so damn _tight_, ahhh ah." It had really been too long. He moved forward steadily, easing himself in until he was hilt-deep, Sherlock's rear pressed against the skin of his hips.

"Tell me when to move," Anderson panted, his body quivering with the need to start thrusting.

Sherlock took a few minutes, his body trying to make room and adjust to the feeling of another inside him, before rasping, "Go."

Anderson moved slowly, withdrawing completely and easing back in. It was slow at first, tortuously slow, changing the angle to find his prostrate again, Sherlock breathing shallowly beneath him and biting his lip. But he did find it again, Sherlock thrusting upwards in return and clawing to find purchase on his back. Legs wrapped tight around him, Anderson increased his pace, hitting the small gland with each thrust. Sherlock's pained breaths turned into high moans, commanding the other to move faster, harder, _more_. The bed began to shift with their movement, the headboard soon banging out a matching rhythm against the wall. For one delirious moment, Anderson almost laughed at the lucky bonus of a house having no neighbors on the other side of the wall—they'd be screwed if they were in Sherlock's flat.

He felt himself growing closer, and knew Sherlock couldn't be far off. Had he ever orgasmed before? He didn't know, but he'd make sure it happened soon, it was just good manners. Soon enough, Sherlock suddenly threw his head back, his body quivering and arching, squeezing around Anderson inside him. He soon followed, filling the body below him and riding out the moments of blind ecstasy. Muscles quivering like a racehorse after a sprint, he collapsed beside Sherlock.

He flopped his head toward the other man, marveling in the quietly awed expression he found on Sherlock's face. He threw an arm over him, drawing the genius towards him, and kissed him slowly, languidly. He looked at the sleepily satisfied on Sherlock's face, one he'd seen on other faces before that came only from good sex, and stated with a quiet chuckle, "You can fuck like a human. I'd take it the experiment was a success?"

Sherlock snorted, muttered a, "Yes, indeed," and placed a soft kiss on Anderson's bruised cheek.

**** oO0o0Oo ****

Sherlock was gone when he woke, the spot beside him cold and half the clothes absent from the floor. Anderson felt a cold sensation spread through his stomach. Of course, Sherlock was a sociopath, he reminded himself, he didn't understand how you're supposed to do these post-coital things. And this was with someone he hated, someone he wished ill of. And it was just an experiment, which equated to a simple one-night stand. Something to be experienced and then analyzed. He surely knew what he was getting into when he agreed to sleep with the unfeeling man. He felt slightly sick.

Anderson walked slowly to the guest bedroom where he spent most nights. He opened his dresser, putting on clothes for the day slowly, not even attempting to shower until he had some coffee in him and a chance to think about this with a clear head- lest he wash away the dried white splotches from his stomach and mistake it all for a dream. But as we walked back down the hallway and passed the master bedroom, the distinct smell of sex hit him like a blow. No, there was no convincing himself it was a dream.

He made his way down the stairs, nothing but his own feet to make him stumble, and down the hallway to get the newspaper from his front porch. He passed the arched entrance to the living room and walked to the door. He stopped, walked backward, peeing into the living room.

"Good morning," Sherlock said casually from the couch, smoking a cigarette and looking quite relaxed. Anderson walked unsurely into the room, standing by the coffee table where Sherlock was tapping out the ash from his cigarette into the recovered ashtray. He was wearing the same clothes from last night, his coat unbuttoned and blue scarf hanging loosely around his neck. He still smelled of sex.

"You thought I'd left." It was a simple statement of fact, no emotion behind the words. Anderson nodded numbly. Sherlock chuckled, smoke escaping his mouth in little billowing clouds and tendrils, "I just didn't want to smoke in your bed; it would probably be impolite. Plus, the website I consulted said that leaving while your partner is asleep is considered highly volatile for the other person's emotional well-being."

"Oh." Anderson dropped heavily onto the cushion beside Sherlock.

"Mmhm," Sherlock agreed around his cigarette. He took a pull on it. Smiling. That smile, for all its sharp edges and the cold facts it spewed out, was highly infectious. Anderson smiled softly in return.

Sherlock exhaled a cloud of smoke, gazing contentedly at it before murmuring, "Two cigarettes and sex in less than 24 hours? If I were fool enough to believe in luck…" He trailed off, chuckling, before turning his gaze back to Anderson.

He took another drag, blowing it away. "The hormonal response from the endorphins will wear off soon and you'll go back to finding me, at the very least, annoying," he explained slowly, almost gently, "Everything will go back to normal, and this will be just another memory of a one-night stand. Nothing to attach any feelings, ill or otherwise, to." Anderson still couldn't help but grimace slightly. Sherlock gave him another smile, wiry and almost understanding.

"We are even now?" He asked suddenly, and Anderson choked on a laugh.

"Yeah, we're even. I don't feel the least bit sorry anymore," he motioned to the ashtray, "though I do think two cigarettes is a bit much to ask."

Sherlock pulled a face, "I was going to ask for another, for the road…"

"No," Anderson stated firmly, snatching the pack of remaining cigarettes from the coffee table before Sherlock's inching fingers could reach it, "Watson and Lestrade would kill me if they knew I'd given you even _one._"

Sherlock twisted his mouth for a moment, but let out a sigh of what could be defeat. A sudden buzzing in his coat stole his attention for a moment, and he sighed again, "And that would be one of them inquiring where I've been all night." He took another drag on his cigarette and rose to his feet. Anderson did so as well.

Anderson held out his hand, feeling it was the right thing to do when showing someone you'd just had sex with for an experiment to the door. Sherlock moved forward swiftly, blew the smoke over Anderson's shoulder, and kissed him. Then he left, the smoke clearing slowly from around Anderson's head as he heard the door click shut.

**** oO0o0Oo ****

Anderson's cellphone, when he turned it back on from where it rested on the coffee table, was flooded with messages from family, friends, and co-workers. He winced, not looking forward to apologizing over and over again to irate people. Sally had left him four messages, asking if he had gotten sick or dropped off the face of the earth. Lestrade had texted him twice, informing him that he couldn't find Sherlock and John was going to kill him if he didn't locate him soon. His mother left a voice message, wanting to know if he would come over next Thursday for dinner.

He went through, answering and deleting as he nursed his way through two cups of coffee. He answered from the oldest to the newest, like he always did. When he got to the newest message, he was surprised to see a new text from Sherlock. He opened it up, his eyes going wide as he read the message, '_Upon reflection, every experiment needs further testing to conclusively verify the results. Join me next Friday at the pub for a repeat? – SH'_

Anderson set the phone down on the coffee table, deciding that, yes, he'd take a shower now and, yes, he'd go to the pub on Friday and get squiggered and, yes, he'd give Sherlock a matching bruise on his cheek. After all, he could always kiss it better.

**** oO0o0Oo **** End

Author's Notes: This is the first finished piece of fanfiction I've written in over a year, so my skills are very rusty. My apologies. Also, yes, I know this is a very, very, _very _unusual pairing! I know this, but I love to write odd pairings; it's a challenge. To be perfectly honest, I kept wanting to write little jokes about the dinosaur meme the fandom came up with for Anderson. XD Like, 'and then Anderson went and screwed a dinosaur named Sherly.' Ahhhh, I'm terrible. XD


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